Don't Stop EvilSherlock AU
by Sociopath in the TARDIS
Summary: Based on a YouTube video link in the fanfic and it's rather obvious from the title what this is about. Evil!Sherlock AU.


**This fanfiction was based on this video here _/watch?v=F1VM0GVb0-Q_ from YouTube and now that it's - sort of - finished I can get on with writing other things. It was really annoying to write but I loved writing it even if it made me feel like a bit of a bastard. Good way to vent, I guess. I hope you enjoy reading it and, as always, comments and feedback are always appreciated. **

**Can also be read on AO3 here: _archiveofourown . org/ works /393377_**

* * *

**Don't Stop**** – Johnlock [Evil!Sherlock AU]**

"_Here's a bit of advice: stay away from that guy."_

"_Why?"_

_"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."_

_"Why would he do that?"_

_"'Cause he's a psychopath; psychopaths get bored. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."_

* * *

Cold water splashed over his toes and into his shoes as he briskly stepped through the puddles that lined the streets of London. He silently cursed as he became just a little heavy footed, stepping down too hard into one of the abundant puddles and causing it to splash up the inside of his shin. Hopping up onto the footpath after crossing swiftly across the road (and slipping briefly on the pavement as his feet made contact with the wet surface), he watched as his target turned a corner. Steps sounded unevenly against the ground as he jogged to keep up with the now out of sight figure. He pressed his back against the wall of the building behind him when he came to a stop and looked around the corner to make sure his target was still there.

This was by far the stupidest thing he'd done in a long time.

Following Sherlock was itself an unwise choice of things to do but he didn't see any other way in which to get the information he rather desperately needed from this secretive stance Sherlock was taking to life right now. The Detective was cutting him out of every single corner of his life and, quite frankly, it hurt John to consider such circumstances after they had been so close for so long. Needless to say, John was getting rather annoyed at Sherlock's behaviour and it was getting stupid. While Sherlock could be brilliant all on his own, John knew the Consulting Detective needed him at least a little bit (especially when you took into consideration the amount of times he had saved his life).

John huffed in a breath of cold, damp London air and shoved his hands into his pockets against the cold breeze that was starting to make his fingers tingle in a particularly unpleasant way. He gave a final look around the corner and, upon seeing that he and Sherlock were a safe distance away from one another; he took off after him again. Feet slapping against the pavement as he took brisk strides to keep Sherlock in view, he briefly considered how unnecessary it was for him to actually follow Sherlock. That was, until, he remembered the reasons why he was all but stalking his flatmate in the first place.

He had to duck into a doorway as Sherlock looked over his shoulder and almost caught sight of John following behind him. He felt his heart thump solidly in his chest as the fear of being caught following his pretentious flatmate suddenly hammered its way into the forefront of his mind; if he were to be caught he would never be able to live it down. However, if his suspicions were to be proved correct, he figured being caught would be the least of his worries. John shivered and bit his lip against both the thought and the chill that laced the air. He didn't know what he would actually do were his suspicions to be confirmed but he'd expect to be dead within the week, at the very latest.

Gathering up his guts, he held his breath and hoped the darkness and lack of sufficient lampposts to light the road they were on would be enough to hide his face from view if Sherlock happened to be looking his way. He peeked around the barrier of the doorway he was hiding in and felt significantly relieved to see Sherlock walking off in the opposite direction to where John was before disappearing off down an alleyway. John took another breath to brace himself before he followed after running and stopping at the mouth of the alleyway. He tried to silently catch his breath, pressing his hand to his chest to try and regulate a simple breathing pattern – God he was getting unfit. As his breathing evened out, he tried his hardest to ignore the scuffling noises that came from within the alley.

The noises stopped suddenly and John's suspicions were confirmed with a resounding bang.

* * *

_One week earlier..._

* * *

John was happy to return home to his shared flat after a long and tiring day at the surgery dealing with mediocre illnesses and symptoms. The thought of the chair that he had long ago claimed as his own made him relax; the thought of the plush and warm fabric that was old and worn into softness – even just thinking of the burgundy red colour of it that reminded him of late night sunsets and the dying embers of a fire. Along with relaxing him, it also made him feel very annoyed that he was not lounging around in the chair at that very moment in time.

He huffed out a resigned sigh and shoved open the door to 221 Baker Street. Shrugging off his coat and loosening his tie, he allowed himself to relax. This is until the sharp crack of gunfire caused him to immediately tense up once again. His hands gripping the fabric of his coat, he pushed a breath through his nose as another shot echoed throughout the blot of flats before he hopped up the stairs, two at a time, a scowl quickly scrawling itself across his features.

In all honesty, John was starting to get sick of Sherlock's little ploys to ease the ever present boredom that was seemingly forever shadowing his brilliant mind. Just because the detective hadn't had a case in just over four days, it didn't mean that John would put up with him putting more bullet holes in the wall that was still to be repaired from the last onslaught it received. As he reached the top of the flight of stairs, John all but flung the door open causing it to rattle on its weakened hinges as it knocked against the wall behind it.

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing, Sherlock?" the wrath of the elusive John Watson was a strong one and his flatmate had all but beckoned it to come forth and engulf him.

Sherlock, however, merely glanced up at him before his gaze dropped back to the gun in his hands as he reloaded the weapon. The only thing he said was a mumbled, "Oh, how pleasant; you're back." And then, as the detective flung his arm back up and clicked the safety off the gun, aiming it carefully towards the centre of the smiley face adorned wall, "Did you bring the milk?"

"No, I didn't...I didn't bring the milk, no," John said, just a little confused as the conversation curved away from his original wrath towards the normal one where Sherlock verbally beat him with words. With a sigh, John ran his hands down his face – it was far too late in the day to deal with this.

"Oh," Sherlock's voice had adorned the steady monotonous voice that always set John on edge, "What a shame. Tea really is quite terrible without milk."

And with that, John could make out where this was all going; Sherlock's finger hovering over the trigger of the firearm in his hand, his eyes squinted as he tried to find aim on the yellow target on the wall before him. With quick steps, John moved around the experiments that littered the floor and slipped the gun from Sherlock's hand before he could deal any more damage unto the wall. Another sigh left his lips before he dropped down into his own chair opposite Sherlock's, a hand running through and mussing up his hair.

"Is this what's going to happen every time I'm not here to entertain you or every time you don't have a case to solve?" John asked, handed moving away from his hair to let it fall into his lap.

"Not every time," Sherlock replied, pulling his legs up onto the chair and raised a hand to direct his attention towards his fingernails, "I do believe that shooting the wall would get quiet boring quiet quickly if I were to repeat it every time I am merely bored." John almost winced as Sherlock's lips quirked upward almost unnoticeably, "Explosions are far more fun."

"Just don't..." John sighed again, "Just don't break anything, okay?"

"If you're so worried about something being broken during the process of an explosion, then I suggest you move out; things breaking during an explosion is a very unavoidable matter," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly as he always was.

"Fine, don't break anything that's important or belongs to me," John said, anger starting to rise as he fisted his hands into the fabric on the arms of his chair.

"Feel free to move all that you want to survive out of the flat," Sherlock replied, stubborn as ever and John was rather sure that yes, yes he would like to punch him right now and rather hard at that. In the face, preferably.

"How about you don't blow anything up at all and just watch crap TV like everyone else does?" John asked, pushing himself from his seat and standing up – he was not prepared to put up with Sherlock's shit right now, "Because, oh, I don't know...that would be more socially acceptable and normal."

Sherlock growled, actually growled, and John would have jumped had his military training not prepared him for unexpected noises as such. "If you want normal," Sherlock said, voice steady but noticeably straining, "Then you can move out."

"My, my, you're rather keen to get me to move out today aren't you?" John scoffed, moving into the kitchen to make tea, flicking the switch on the kettle, "Is there something you're not telling me? No, no let me guess," he snorted and pulled down a cup from the cupboard before dropping a tea bag into it. "Hmm," the kettle finished boiling and he raised an eyebrow, "There's a body under the floorboards and you're becoming even more of a dick because you're scared someone will find it."

John was going to laugh until Sherlock replied with a single word that was able to answer his past few questions.

"Maybe."

Instead, John burnt himself on the hot water from the kettle.

* * *

The next day was calm and John summarised that Sherlock had disappeared at some point in the night to run off in the process of solving one of the cases that he was apparently so keen to block John out of. Though, it's completely besides the point that nobody has posted any requests for a case on his or Sherlock's website. It's also besides the point that Lestrade hasn't given them a case. And it's definitely besides the point that nobody has visited to request Sherlock go off on a case. No, no these facts are all just...coincidental.

John, like most of Great Britain when dealing with a crisis, made a cup of tea from almost perfect muscle memory. Despite the arguments him and the kettle had last night, there were no extraneous variables that may cause him to spill water on himself this time so he was perfectly fine with dealing with the tea making. After that he sighed, ate and watched crap telly until an increasing sense of worry tightened in his chest when Sherlock still didn't return home.

With another sigh, he stood and took his cup to the sink before he slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled the number he knew belonged to Sherlock's mobile. If the Consulting Detective thought he was going to run off on some sort of crime solving spree without so much as warning John as to what his whereabouts would be then he had another thing coming; it was one thing to make John angry, it was a completely different thing to make him worried. John bit his nails as he waited for the call to go through, only to find that Sherlock's phone had been turned off at some point between the present and his departure.

John rubbed his fingertips against his temples and tried to quell the sudden bursts of thoughts outlining the possible situations that Sherlock may have found himself in; he might be dying or possibly even dead. He breathed in deeply through his nose before letting the air back out of his mouth again. He was being stupid. Sherlock had survived for the better part of thirty years without John to coax him to do things and lead him about and shove order into his dishevelled life, had he not?

Checking the time, only to find that it was a lot later than he had originally thought it was, John retired to bed for the night and promised himself that if Sherlock wasn't home by the end of the next day then he would demand that Lestrade filled out a missing persons report or something similar. Somehow, he managed to force himself into a steady sleep even through the mental images of his best friend and flatmate being maimed and murdered and chopped up and all those other horrible mental scenarios. Sherlock was likely safe and he probably didn't need John pestering and pining over him all hours of the day just because he was worried about his wellbeing.

When John plodded down the stairs the next morning, he entered the main living space to see one Sherlock Holmes strewn across the couch with the back of his forearm pressed over his eyes. The sight calmed his nerves until he saw the tiny blood splatters that adorned his flatmate's shirt. Be it that the doctor in him took over or the fact that he was just so bloody pleased to see that the enigmatic bastard had survived another night to see the day; John all but stormed over to Sherlock and frowned as he approached him.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, drawing his arms over his chest as his lips set into an even tighter frown. When Sherlock didn't answer, he let out a long-suffering sigh and pressed a forefinger and thumb to the insides of the bridge of his nose and rubbed as he felt a headache developing.

"Did you hurt yourself? I mean, there's an awful lot of blood on your clothes, Sherlock..." John said, patience growing thin as once again Sherlock didn't answer, "Fine, don't answer but at least tell me where you've been for the past day and a bit because, believe it or not, I did worry - too much."

Sherlock's reply was almost inaudible and he barely moved as he spoke the single word, "Case."

"You're lying," John frowned and pushed Sherlock's legs off the sofa in the most ungraceful way possible, dropping down into the freed up space next to his flatmate whom was now forced to sit up and play a part in social niceties. John thought, for a second, that Sherlock may actually swing his wet, dirty, shoe clad feet up onto his lap; but he didn't and for that at least John was grateful.

"You couldn't possibly know that I'm lying or not, John – you're not nearly intelligent enough to work out such a thing," Sherlock all but scoffed as he pulled his legs up onto the chair, his knees pressing against his chest, "And no, I am not hurt. If I were to sustain an injury I've no doubt I would have enough common sense to at least contact someone with medical expertise."

John almost snorted but his gentlemanly manners and suppression techniques from the army caused him to think better of his actions and he contained his urge to do so, "You? Contacting someone with 'medical expertise'? Don't make me laugh, no really, Sherlock; you wouldn't contact anyone who you deemed to be of a lower intelligence status than yourself and we both know that's the truth so shut up and tell me _what the __**hell **__happened_, Sherlock." John would have been surprised at how angry he was becoming with his flatmate – at how quickly carefully followed techniques from the army had been dropped – but he felt it was all warranted considering the absolute shit Sherlock had been putting him through lately.

Another scoff left the still, seated figure besides him as the Consulting Detective jerked his head away so that John wasn't even in his peripheral vision, "I'm perfectly fine, I assure you. I've only sustained minor bruising to my wrists and upper torso. The details as to how the injuries came about are not important now, if you please," Sherlock lifted a hand as if to dismiss John from the couch and his company, "I would very much like to be left alone to think."

"If you want to be left alone you can damn well go to your room, you pretentious prick," John scowled as he spoke as he grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and turned on the television. Sherlock's frown deepened and John had no doubts that the detective was already following along with his plan to a worryingly accurate degree.

However, despite John knowing that Sherlock knew what he was going to do, the next twenty minutes were spent in silence. The air was awkward as Sherlock sat brooding while John tried to dispel a happy air from himself as he channel flicked through the various stations and programmes with a put on smile. It was a pathetic attempt to even try to find anything that was really worth watching amongst the sea of annoying, stereotypical daytime television. Deciding on something that he couldn't stand and yet would be even more of a torture for Sherlock to sit through was a hard feat of imagination but, steering clear of documentaries and the news as those held the potential to engage Sherlock's mind, John settled on 'Loose Women' on ITV1.

Once again, there was not a single doubt in John's mind that Sherlock was deducing away at his television choices and was going to make jabs at his sexuality when you took into consideration that the show's main target viewing audience was women who were having a mid-life crisis. But John couldn't care less; the look on Sherlock's face while he watched women talk about period pains and weight loss plans and what clothes complimented what would be completely worth all the trouble.

To his surprise, Sherlock actually stayed quiet for ten minutes before he so much as let out an over exaggerated sigh which was meant to be a show of how annoyed he was getting with John's plan. It seemed Sherlock had misinterpretation the information; John was not going to back out first because this was a secret skill of his, he was trained in watching and putting up with crap television just as something to do to kill spare time. And, until Sherlock spoke up about what happened, that's what it was: spare time. John wouldn't give two royal tosses about what period pains were like but the advice that these women on the television were dealing out about how colour affects the perception of the body were priceless.

_Red will compliment your eyes if you're dark skinned and it will also add an edge of mystery and romance._

_White is a no go at this time of year! It's too plain and will make you look boring._

_Black is classy so long as you mix another colour with it, green works well if you're—_

"Are you really going to insist on watching this drivel while I'm still around you? It's hardly nice to torture your flatmate," Sherlock spoke up, inspecting his nails as he pointedly turned his head down from the television so he could see none of what was going on during the show.

"If it gets you to tell me what actually happened then I will sit here until you talk," John replied, his voice steady as he kept his eyes trained on the screen of the television, only watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye, the movements the detective made a blur.

There was another prolonged silence and, just as John thought he may be winning in the situation, Sherlock made a very strenuous choice and decided to get up off the sofa with a huff. With a twirl of coat and the manhandling of a scarf, Sherlock was out the door.

Once again, John was alone.

* * *

As much as John loathes admitting it, he didn't seriously start worrying about Sherlock until the eccentric madman turned down a case from Lestrade. That was when the severity of the situation and Sherlock's elusive behaviour came round and hit John in the back of the head like a lead pipe of reason. It was only then when John had begun to realise, and he knew he had realised too late, just how bad it was. And maybe he felt a little bit guilty for not noticing sooner.

All this came about when, one day, Lestrade bounded into their apartment with all his little police friends following hot on his hells, stopping at the door as he strode into the apartment, confident and completely unabashed by anything that may have been in there. Sherlock tilted his head back over the sofa arm to get a look at the Detective Inspector whilst John looked over from where he was sat at the desk, an empty Microsoft Word document open on his screen, just as it had been for the past three hours.

"I've got a case for you," Lestrade stated.

"Obvious," Sherlock replied with a swift roll of his eyes, "Give me the basic details so I can determine a few aspects."

"Fourteen murders that we think are connected," Lestrade said, remembering the details himself as he spoke them aloud as Sherlock had commanded, "All of the murders were violent but clean. Asphyxiation."

"And what might leave you to think they're connected, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock sighed, his eyes returning to the wallpaper of the ceiling as he apparently grew bored of the situation.

"Actually, we think he might want your attention. Either that or it's just a coincidence," Lestrade's hand had migrated to the back of his neck to rub it. John frowned from over in his place at the desk and shifted in his chair so that he could look at both Lestrade and Sherlock at a better angle and actively pursue the conversation.

"What? Aimed at him?" he spoke up, closing the lid of the laptop and resting his chin in the palm of his hand as his elbow rested on the table, his other hand idly resting on the table as his fingers typed a random beat against the wood quietly, "How exactly did you draw that conclusion, if you don't mind me intruding, that is?"

"Oh, we think they might be connected because of the style. But also mainly because at every crime scene there has been a smiling face painted somewhere close by where it could be seen from the body..." Lestrade said and his eyes hovered over to the yellow smiley face that had been adorning the wall for a rather long time now. John followed his gaze almost immediately and frowned, his own brain running off on a tandem of thought as he started to slot everything together, "Every third one was missing its heart as well."

There was a long moment of silence between the three of them before Sherlock spoke up from the sofa suddenly; eyes closed now as apparently he had lost interest in what type of wallpaper covered their ceiling. "I don't want the case," he said almost quietly, hands moving into their commonly seen and now named prayer position under his chin. John could honestly say he wanted to throttle the man.

"What? Why not?" Lestrade asked, obviously not used to Sherlock turning down a serious case, such as the one he had just proposed, "There have been fourteen murders, Sherlock - we need you to help us."

"No amount of begging will get you anywhere, Detective Inspector. And it really doesn't suit you, if you want my professional opinion on the matter," Sherlock said, jokes lost in the river of monotonous baritone that just so happened to be his voice, "I expect that from fourteen murders that there would be enough evidence for you to draw your own conclusions."

Lestrade glanced over at John and gave him a withering look. John shrugged his shoulders weakly in return and gave a little frown. Why Sherlock was acting like this was as much his guess as it was anyone else's; it was very unlike the Consulting Detective to turn down such a serious and potentially dangerous case, especially when Sherlock was prone to being drawn in towards the ones that seemed to circulate around murders and all of those lovely things. It almost seemed like Lestrade was going to beg but John knew he wouldn't because at least he had pride.

"Okay then," Lestrade sighed heavily, turning on his heel slowly enough to give Sherlock choice to change his mind. But, when the elusive madman didn't, he told his team to move out. John waited patiently as their heavy footsteps retreated down the stairs, to the bottom and out of the door, before he turned more so in his chair to view Sherlock and frowned.

"What was that?" he asked, knowing full well that he wouldn't be getting a serious answer any time soon. Call it wishful thinking but John hoped that if he pestered Sherlock enough he might get an actual answer. But, as the man on the couch stayed silent, it dawned on him that maybe his own assumptions were rather wrong.

"Okay, fine. But answer this one and only this one..." John stopped, lips turning downwards as he considered the question he was contemplating asking, "Are you the murderer?"

Sherlock visibly tensed on the sofa and, for what felt like hours, 221b was flooded with a steady silence that it had not known since Sherlock and John had inhabited its living space. As the silence stretched on and John stared at Sherlock, he was getting both suspicious and very worried; maybe even a bit excited but, seeing as the prospect of his flatmate and best friend being a murderer was laid out before him, he refused to acknowledge that little nagging emotion as it was socially unacceptable and entirely unneeded right now. He needed to focus on all of the details and pull a Sherlock Holmes, if you will, in order to piece all of it together – if Sherlock was the murderer he would have to do something about it because the Consulting Detective couldn't get away with everything.

It continued like this before Sherlock huffed out a very quiet 'no' that John almost didn't hear. However, when Sherlock turned hit back on John and his face towards the back of the sofa, he was fighting the strains of a proud smile trying to push itself onto his features. Personally, Sherlock blamed John. He hadn't expected his flatmate to get suspicious so soon but John could surprise him; John was always the one who surprised him.

Maybe he felt proud, maybe he felt nervous, but what he knew was that John was working things out and that was better than he had ever expected.

* * *

John frowned as he edged his way down the alleyway slowly, his hands groping at the walls so he could feel his way along them and into the area that the action had been going on in. He peered around a corner, the frown on his face deepening as he found the lighting in the area to be particularly annoying as – no matter how much it may have protected him from prying eyes previously on his chase – it provided no light for him to see anything other than the shadowed forms of two people whom were obviously in the process of the murder. One was pressed up against the wall and the other was looming at least a head height above him, hands clamped firmly over his throat if John were to guess and consider the angle of the man's arms.

If John were to also guess, it was Sherlock if he judged from the tendrils of curly hair that bobbed from atop the shadowed figure's head, the swishing coat that flapped around him and curled around the shadow's ankles like a dark sea that was about to engulf him whole, and the abnormal height of him as he leaned over to get a good hold on the fragile neck before him. As the shadow's hands dropped so did the body that they once held, head hitting the ground with a crack that John found disgusting, his doctors senses reeling as he fought the urge to run into the firing line and help nurse the by now likely dead man back to health.

However it was all that John could do to keep quiet and bite the inside of his palm as he pressed his back firmly against the wall behind him, anchoring himself as his knees began to feel unsteady. This was unfair, Sherlock was being unfair. John didn't even dare to look around the corner as he heard the sickening tear of skin being cut with a knife. There was a prominent squelch of flesh that resounded in the silence of the night and now John didn't trust himself to breathe without an embarrassing whimper leaving his lips at the thought of what Sherlock may or may not be doing to that body right now.

There were a few scuffling noises before they resigned and the ringing silence once again took their place. John took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths to calm himself before the dragging sound of fingertips against brick wall became known to his ears and it was everything he could do to ignore how all the facts seemed to so perfectly slip into place. It was as though, all of a sudden, the reasons for so many things became clear to him and he realised how hard it must be on Lestrade to ignore the was the evidence must be pointing towards Sherlock even more now because of his refusal to take the case – Sally and her little attack dog Anderson must've been giving him hell over it. It didn't ease the pain when John realised that, even if they were making accusations out of purely malice, they were right.

A sound that John couldn't quite place rang out and, after a moment of consideration, he supposed it may have been the heart dropping onto the flesh of the body. The realisation in that didn't make him feel any better about it but it did succeed in making him want to throw up whatever he had eaten that day. The silence that followed was almost deafening and, just as John was about to leave the scene of the crime and give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt for the sake of their friendship (and his flat), a prominent baritone cut through the stiff air.

"You know, I'm rather proud you figured it out before anyone else, John," Sherlock said, the clang of the knife he must have been holding startlingly loud as it hit the pavement beneath it. John stilled and Sherlock spoke up again, "I mean, you live with me and that gives you the advantage of knowing but for you to draw the facts together is...interesting."

John squeezed his eyes shut and bit the inside of his lip as he once again used the wall behind him to stop himself from greeting the floor with his face. He was not an experiment no matter how much Sherlock made him feel like one - nor was he a sidekick for the arrogant detective to push around to heed his every whim and will. John took a breath and curled his fingers into tight fists as he tried to lock his knees in order to stop himself from needing the wall. He'd been in the army, he should (and promised himself he would) be able to deal with a single man being a danger to his health.

There was the sound of a huffed sigh, the crackle and shift of fabric surprisingly loud as Sherlock adjusted his position and called out again, "You may as well come out, John. I know you're there and there's no point in me killing you so it's not like I'm going to kill you."

Pulling in a breath, John tested his legs to see if they would hold his weight. When they did he stepped out into the open space in which Sherlock had committed the murder, the body shrewd across the pavement a few meters to the left of him, the bloody smiley face painted on the wall next to it. He couldn't stop his eyes from drifting to Sherlock's hands and the blood that dripped from them onto the pavement beneath them, forming small puddles of crimson red. It took all of John's training as a soldier to stop himself from throwing up at the prospect that his best friend had done all of this.

"Ah, now that's better; I can actually see you," Sherlock gave him a smile that in any other situation would have been warm, maybe even endearing.

John just nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. But, as he saw Sherlock wasn't going to say any more until John gave a verbal answer, he dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand and straightened his back, "Yeah, but why? Why would you do all of this?"

For a few precious seconds, Sherlock actually looked surprised, "Because John, this is entertainment." It was a cold statement and John loathed him for it, loathed him for going and throwing every opportunity his stupid, amazing life held and for what? Because he was bored and apparently killing people was a fun way of remedying that.

"Lies are entertainment then? Sherlock, this is stupid," John answered, finally finding his tongue properly so he could form at least a liable sentence. But apparently Sherlock wasn't interested in listening to him right now because the Consulting Detective looked at the ground, cheeks moving upwards as he smiled, before he looked up again and spoke.

"I have a proposition for you, Doctor Watson."

* * *

It took him a while to adjust to it but he came to love it. As much as it went against John's own inner moral views of the world, once again Sherlock had opened up a completely different type of life to him that he had never known about. He had been a soldier but guns and practically having a licence to kill people was completely different to the thrill he got from...doing this. In all prospects he didn't actually understand what 'this' was other than the basic fact that people got hurt. Sherlock picked the victims and, as always, John became his right hand man. So that probably explained why they were in the old swimming pool with a woman knelt before them both on the floor, sobbing profusely.

John hated himself for feeling even just a little bit excited but he was; she was there and they were going to kill her no matter what happened because they could. That was the only reason he supposed Sherlock did it and one of the many reasons why he did it himself now: because they could. Sherlock glanced over at him and, taken aback by the adrenaline that was still new to him, John gave a singular nod. It was just a quick jerk of his head but obviously Sherlock Holmes could pick up on even the slightest of movements. The finger of his flatmate tightened around the trigger before the gun sounded loud and clear within the walls of the pool.

The body of the woman slumped to the floor in a heap of idle fat, skin and bones. John looked over to Sherlock again and found the other was looking back at him. It was silent for a few seconds before each of their mouths strained at the edges before spreading upwards into grins, giggles bursting from their throats and slithering their way out of their mouths as they all but broke down into a fit of hysterics. Sherlock leant his hand on John's shoulder, his other hand moving behind himself as he flicked the safety on and slipped the gun into the back of his fitted trousers before he pulled his blazer over the top of it, concealing the weapon from view.

Lips gently brushed the side of John's ear and he almost missed the words that were spoken while the warm sensation of touch washed over him.

"How about we get a take away?" Sherlock asked in his usual low baritone, the hand on John's shoulder holding it firmly. His lips stayed close to the doctor's ear as though he was almost unaware of the proximity of space between the two of them, "I can always tell a good Chinese from its door handle."

John merely smiled and pushed Sherlock's face away from his head with his hand, the warm feeling that tingled through him when the detective was so close becoming a distraction when he was trying to think of words in order to form a coherent sentence to reply with. The detective was elusive and exciting and, John mused, it probably wasn't the first time that he was at a loss of words around the enigmatic man. With a quick glance towards the slumped body on the floor John made up his mind.

"Fine, but you're paying," he said and the smile expanded as he grinned, "And I'm assuming you're leaving the police to think that this is a different murderer's doings, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, removing his hand from John's shoulder and straightening himself out, "I'm no longer surprised that you can figure this out before them now. Take that as a compliment; as much as I may say it, Lestrade is no idiot. He just cares and caring is - by far - his greatest weakness, if I am one to judge."

With that being the final comment, they left the pool walking side by side nonchalantly. Sherlock made a joke that John almost missed but he laughed anyway as they made their way to the Chinese restaurant but a few streets away from their own home. As Sherlock ordered, John reflected on what had come about in the past few days; this was the first time he had been involved in one of his friend's killings but he had to admit that he rather liked it, though he suspected it was because it reminded him of the military. _John Watson, you are loyally fucked in the head and it's all because of this bastard_, John smiled as he glanced towards his flatmate.

His eyes stayed focused on Sherlock and John supposed he may have been distracted by his own thoughts because, after what felt like a few seconds, Sherlock was waving his hand in front of his face. It was only when the detective clicked his fingers close to his nose that John was able to dislodge himself from his own mind, blinking a few times and furrowing his eyebrows. Sherlock passed him one of the takeaway bags and John remembered where he was.

"Sorry, I just..." he started and stopped, unknowing of how to phrase what had just happened, "Got a bit distracted, I guess."

"Mm, it's no problem; it's likely just the adrenaline running off, you're not used to it," Sherlock replied and then gave John a slight smile. John thought that he should really give a warning before he smiled...

"...Someone might walk into a lamppost," he finished, only then aware that he had, in fact, been speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Hmm, and you should give someone a warning before you do anything, John. You're really quite a distracting individual," Sherlock replied without missing the carefully timed beat of a word or pause, smile growing before he gestured by holding the takeaway bag he was carrying up, "Should we mayhaps begin getting home now, Doctor Watson?"

John nodded and, with Sherlock gently nudging him out of the takeaway's door, they made their way back to Baker Street. Upon arriving, Sherlock passed the takeaway bag he was carrying over to John before he promptly flopped over the arm of the sofa to land unceremoniously face first on the padded cushions before him. In return to the action, John gave an amused huff of breath before closing the door with his foot and heading into the kitchen with both bags to lay out the food.

When he'd finished putting the food onto plates, John picked them both up and placed one on Sherlock's stomach, his flatmate likely having rolled over onto his back whilst John was busying himself in the kitchen. With a singular hand movement, he gestured for Sherlock to sit up and, though he made a few undignified noises of protest, he seemed to comply with John's petty whim. Once the long, lanky legs of the detective had moved, John took a seat next to him on the sofa.

Whilst to anyone else killing someone and then having a takeaway afterwards may have seemed strange, with what John had gone through with Sherlock and all of the cases this was practically commonplace except for the fact that the two of them were on the opposite side of the crime circle. All he really had to do now was get used to being on the side that killed people again. John stared down at his spring rolls and sighed the long suffering sigh of the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes.

"You got the wrong spring rolls – I don't like these ones," he said, casting a sideways glance at the man sitting next to him.

"Oh, sorry; I must have forgotten again," Sherlock shrugged and then smirked, shifting on the sofa so that he could face John, "Feed them to me, much less trouble that way."

John stared at the madman next to him for a few seconds before shaking his head and plucking up one of the small spring rolls between his forefinger and thumb. When Sherlock parted his lips, he slowly pushed the food into his waiting mouth. His hand lingered in front of Sherlock's mouth as he chewed before he gained enough clarity of thought process in order to pick up the next one. John repeated it for the final spring roll but this time, before he could pull his hand away, Sherlock pressed his lips against the pads of John's forefinger and middle finger in what must have been a kiss before he turned away and directed his attention back to whatever happened to be on the television.

Sherlock Holmes showing even just the slightest inkling of need for reciprocated human contact? Yes, John was going to take a while to get used to this...

* * *

The second murder was just as – if not, even more – invigorating and breathtaking as the first. There were no guns, no knifes; nothing but their own hands. John spared a singular glace over to Sherlock before he directed his attention to the man in front of them. He couldn't have been over the age of twenty five, but apparently Sherlock deemed him worthy to kill and who was John Watson to fight with his flatmate's logic? They had grappled with the man momentarily before they had reached their current predicament of circumstances; both Sherlock and he had bruises to show for it but their soon to be victim was far worse off.

The man had a split lip and the bruise just under his eye was swelling, causing him to wince as his he couldn't get it to stay open properly. Their fighting had ended up with them atop a steep set of steps in which looked particularly painful to fall down. It was a surprise when John suddenly felt a twist of hatred towards this man that dared to even stand before them, that he'd so much as thought of putting up a fight when all that it would do was prolong his likely sadistic and frankly horrid death. In a subconscious act, John gritted his teeth and shot another glance sideways at Sherlock to find him staring back at him. When Sherlock gave a little smirk and looked down at his hands, John immediately caught the message his flatmate was trying to send him.

At the same time, Sherlock and his hands both collide with the young man's chest, sending him tumbling backwards and down the flight of sharply cut steps all the way down to the bottom. There was a sickening series of cracks as bones broke upon hitting the angles of all of the individual steps and John couldn't help the way that the sound was simply delightful to hear. He looked over to Sherlock and, once again, saw him looking back. After a few seconds, it was all that they could do to stop themselves from bursting out into a fit of churning giggles. But, of course, they failed and ended up laughing loudly and freely as the body lay shattered, bruised and dead a few meters downwards from them at the bottom of the steps.

As though through some silent mutual agreement, they simultaneously turned on their heels and ran away from the crime scene (at a casual, peaceful pace) until they came to a dimly lit alley a way away from where they had run. Here, upon meeting each other's gazes, they once again began to laugh freely and away from any prying eyes that may have seen what they were laughing over. John supposed that anyone who may have been looking at them would have thought that they were drunk or something similar to the like – no one in their right mind would have thought that these two strange looking men, slightly beaten up but otherwise fine men, had just pushed someone down jaunty stairs to his death.

By the end of the unstoppable laughter, John had his face pressed against Sherlock's shoulder from the front and Sherlock had his nose pressed into the top of John's shoulder in return; they were still giggling quietly as they came to terms with the situation. John thought about pulling back for a second but stopped himself in favour of the warmth radiating from the body that was almost pressed against him, in favour of the soft giggles that were still tickling against the shell of his ear, breath warm and sharp as it heated the side of his face. The giggles subsided eventually and John spoke up.

"God, why do I even do the things you do?" John smiled as he said it, only vaguely aware that his fingers were idly tapping against Sherlock's coat as his hands rested on his hips.

"Because I am the closest thing to God, John Watson," Sherlock replied, hands tightening around the place that they had found on John's biceps as all the hilarity was suddenly drained from the situation. The baritone became deftly low as Sherlock moved to whisper into John's ear, "You'll worship me and never stop."

The next think John knew was that Sherlock's lips were pressed solidly against his neck, the soft flesh warm against what little skin was exposed for them to get at. His hands involuntarily tightened on Sherlock's hips as the once detective grazed the flesh with his teeth and then...nothing; Sherlock had pulled away. After a few seconds, a hand grabbed John's wrist and it was as though the contact between them had never happened, as though the event had been disregarded and thrown away, refused further thought as though it wasn't worthy of it any longer. He was tugged towards 221b with startling clarity of direction and found that it was easier to put the event behind him than to linger on it.

What he didn't expect was that the moment he step foot inside the boundary of their home that Sherlock's lips would be on his own once again, his flatmate's body pressing his own back against the wall firmly and stopping him from moving. He couldn't help it as he made an involuntary sound against Sherlock's lips when a warm, prying tongue pushed its way into his mouth with sure determination and force. It was in those rough actions that John finally started to understand what he was getting into; finally started to understand just how dangerous the situation he was in actually was. But, instead of running, he clutched at Sherlock's arms and tried to pull him closer, kissing back with as much vigour as he could muster with such a dominating force above him. When Sherlock pulled back for breath they were both panting in unison, breath mingling as their lips stayed only millimetres apart.

"I expected you to be...more gentle," John said, a smile in his voice as he teased his whatever-Sherlock-was, hands sliding up to wrap around the back of Sherlock's neck and rest in a more comfortable position, "I remember Mycroft saying that you were a virgin."

"Hmm, bringing my brother up during foreplay; such an interesting thing to do. And, dear Watson, if that is the lie you choose to believe then..." Sherlock paused to move to John's neck. His head tilted to the side in a single precise and graceful movement as he kissed it gingerly before chuckling, causing the air to almost vibrate in with the low noise, "I am the lie that you adore, aren't I?"

When Sherlock suddenly bit down hard enough on his neck to draw blood, John let out a strangled cry that became muffled quickly as the other man's gloved hand was pressed firmly over his mouth. As he bit down on flesh and leather, he became truly and utterly aware of how dangerous he Sherlock actually was, how much of a power complex he really had.

However, it seemed that John Watson simply didn't care.

When he woke up, he ached. Even if he hadn't had sex with Sherlock yet (and he used the word 'yet' in his internal monologue because he knew it was inevitable – and he would likely allow it, if not embrace it) he still ached from the various things that they did. His neck was covered with scabbed over and bruised areas where Sherlock apparently liked to dig his teeth into him, his shoulders in a similar state. As he rolled off of his bed, not bothering to right himself before he fell onto his hands and knees on the floor, he was rather sure that quite a few other areas on his body were badly bruised. Though, he mused, he should be rather thankful that he hadn't received any broken bones or dismembered limbs.

With much effort, John pushed himself up from the floor, biting down hard on his lip and wincing at the pain that formed and eased out over his skin from the newly forming bruises that littered his body in a haphazard disarray of patterned purple and blue. Hissing out a breath, he composed himself and grabbed a t-shirt before pulling it over the top of his head to cover his bare chest and gain at least a little bit of modesty – and maybe some dignity if he were to be so lucky. He trampled his way downstairs sluggishly with heavy feet and did what the majority of the British population would do in a situation in which a person needed to be calmed down: he made a cup of tea.

As he stepped into the front room, hands curled around the piping hot mug, he became aware of Sherlock sat on the chair in a similar position to the one that he had occupied in their first case together. Sherlock's legs were pulled up onto his chair so he could crouch, staring into the bright pink suitcase that was on their table. The whole situation was too familiar and John couldn't pass up the chance to ask a certain question.

"Are you the murderer?" he asked with abandoned amusement lacing his voice.

"Yes, obviously," was Sherlock's quick and biting reply to him as hands shot forwards to dig around in the case, apparently trying to find something within the confines of its padded walls.

John's only reply was to stand their awkwardly for a while before tilting his head sideways in question, seriousness leaking into the expression that covered his face. At least he knew for sure now that life with Sherlock Holmes was always and forever going to be dangerous, exciting and completely unexpected at all times. A slight nagging in the back of his head told him that he was never going to leave his man, no matter what happened; even if Sherlock decided to abuse him because he hadn't found someone worthy enough to have the honour of being murdered from his hand, John would still stay with him.

John was broken, and even if Sherlock couldn't fix him he was as close as anyone was going to get.


End file.
